by Lisa Jackson
Worse yet, Norm Metzger had the nerve to call her for information on the investigation.
“What is it about ‘I’m recovering and shouldn’t be bothered’ you don’t understand?” she’d asked him when he’d identified himself and explained that he was looking for information on the bodies found at the Beaumont estate. Nikki would never have taken the call, but she’d recognized the number for the Sentinel and assumed erroneously that Millie was phoning her with information.
“But you were there,” Metzger had argued, “and you’re married to the lead investigator on the case.”
“So?”
“And it’s my story, Gillette. Not yours. Not anyone else’s at the paper.” He couldn’t hide the irritation in his voice.
Nikki got it. Metzger was still burned about the other crime cases she’d been a part of while he, ostensibly, was the police beat/crime reporter for the paper. He’d also seethed about her brush with fame as a published true crime author of three—count ’em!—three books. As close as he was to the editor, Norm probably figured his job was on the line. And it should be. If he wasn’t such a close golfing/poker buddy of Tom Fink, he would have been fired years before.
“Look, we’re on the same team here. We both work for the Sentinel, and God knows the paper needs a shot in the arm. So help me out here. What did you see at the Beaumont estate, and where are the police on this? The bodies have been ID’d as a couple of the Duval sisters, the girls that have been missing for about twenty years, the ones where their mother takes out ads in the newspaper to keep the public aware.”
“Right.”
“So you must have the inside track on the investigation.”
She bristled. “You know Detective Reed and I don’t discuss his cases.”
“Oh, come on, Gillette. You expect me to believe that?”
She bit her tongue, but her temper was rising and she clenched the phone so hard her hand hurt.
“I can’t believe it!” he said, his voice rising. “Listen, I know you’ve got the inside track on this one. Just like you did before with Blondell O’Henry and The Grave Robber. Nearly cost me my job, last time.”
She snapped. Could control herself not a second longer. “You don’t know anything, Metzger,” she charged. “And that’s the problem: You never have. If you really cared about your beat, you’d put more into it. Instead of phoning it in. You’re right, the paper’s in trouble and you aren’t helping.”
“You little bitch,” he said, almost snarling, all of his pent-up rage and jealousy boiling to the surface. “Born with a silver spoon, always getting into trouble, thinking you’re some hotshot author when you’ve got it made being married to the damned department! Like I said, ‘inside track.’ ”
“Don’t call again!” she advised, and as she clicked off heard him mutter, “Hormonal bitch.”
She wished she could have slammed down a receiver rather than just press a button. Geez, he pissed her off! And the remark about hormones. Obviously Metzger hadn’t heard of the Me Too movement. And considering her condition after the miscarriage, the barb cut deep.
Don’t let him get to you. He’s scared. Backed into a corner. Needs his job. Just do yours.
But his jab cut deep. She felt hot tears burn the back of her eyes.
“Screw it!”
She threw off the covers. Refused to cry.
Would not.
No more tears, she told herself, though her throat was clogged.
It was past time to get up and get going and yeah, her shoulder still ached and her arm was in a sling, and yeah, she felt horrible, just horrible about losing the baby. Then, oh, God, Morrisette. So awful. But lying in bed and stewing wouldn’t help anything.
She’d promised Reed she would take the doctor’s orders seriously and she would, but it wouldn’t help her to do nothing and go quietly out of her mind.
Besides, there was a story to write.
And it was still hers, damn it. No matter what Metzger thought.
She’d already seen news reports on TV. With the bodies identified, reporters were already on the scene, not only at the Beaumont estate, but had collected at the home and business of Tyson Beaumont, who along with his father, Baxter, owned the property where the bodies of the Duval sisters had been found.
Nikki should have been there. In the crowd. With questions and a microphone. It was all so frustrating. When she should have had a damned exclusive. She’d even read Metzger’s account of the discovery of the bodies. It had been accurate, but, in her estimation, thin.
She could do better.
She would do better.
Besides, she did have an ace or two up her sleeve. And not because of Reed. First, there was the boat she was certain she’d seen beneath the willow tree. It had been red and hard to distinguish, but she kept mixing it up in her mind with the prow of the boat that had struck Morrisette. Different boats, right? Had to be, but she wasn’t certain; that part of the tragedy was still murky in her mind. And then there was Bronco Cravens. So far she’d seen no interviews with him. His anonymous tip to the police department hadn’t yet been leaked to the press, but she knew about it.
That, though not much, was something.
A different angle.
The Cravens and Beaumont families, though from vastly different social strata, had been connected for years, and no one, so far, had delved into that side story.
And she knew Tyson Beaumont, who was a year or possibly two younger than Andrew but, she thought, had played ball with him in high school. Way back when.
She hadn’t really known the Duval girls, though Holly hadn’t been that much younger than her, maybe a couple of years? She’d have to check. There was a chance that she might have been friends with someone Nikki had hung out with in junior high, though that was a stretch. She certainly didn’t remember it.
Also, so far the victims’ mother, Margaret Duval Le Roy, had not spoken to the press despite the small group who had collected on the lawn in front of her house. But that would probably happen. And soon. Nikki only wished she could be the first reporter to interview the victims’ mother, but considering the fact she was still laid up, it seemed unlikely. She tested her arm, felt a painful twinge in her shoulder and silently swore at her bad luck.
But a sore shoulder didn’t mean she was bed-bound.
Nor did a miscarriage, sad as it may be.
“So do something,” she said aloud. As if she needed any motivation.
On the bed, Jennings stretched and yawned. His pink tongue curling, his needle-sharp teeth visible.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” she said, but couldn’t resist patting him on the head before she made her way to the steps leading to the third-floor loft and her office. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder, she flopped onto the daybed with her laptop, then started scouring the Internet for more information on the bodies located at the Beaumont estate. All she knew was that they’d been ID’d as the older two of the long-missing Duval sisters, Holly and Poppy. But Rose, the youngest, was still missing. So what happened to her? Was she buried elsewhere? Or were her remains scattered, found by animals? No, that didn’t make sense, not if the reports were accurate because the other two bodies hadn’t been disturbed. So—had she escaped? Was it possible the youngest sibling alone had survived? What were the chances of that?
In her mind she was already writing her story, using her unique perspective as a person who had been at the historic home as a child. She knew a portion of the history of the old home, most of the rumors and scandals, secrets and lies. Those that she didn’t, she could find out. If Google couldn’t help her, Charlene probably could. All she had to do was ask her mother....
Her heart sank at that thought. She’d barely spoken to Charlene since losing the baby. One quick call delivering the heartbreaking news and a promise to phone again when she was feeling better.
“No time like the present,” she said aloud as she heard Mikado’s nails clicking on the stairs as the old
dog came up to join her. As the phone rang in her ear, he looked up expectantly and Nikki patted the mattress beside her. He sprang onto the bed and settled in beside her. “We need to go outside, you and I, to get some exercise,” she said as the phone call went to voice mail.
Relieved, Nikki left a quick message saying she was feeling better and would call Charlene back. Then she dived into the information her laptop provided. A lot had happened since she’d been laid up, the essence of the information as she sifted through it that the two bodies had been identified, as many had speculated, to be the two older Duval sisters. Holly and Poppy. The youngest girl wasn’t in the basement, her whereabouts unknown.
Dead? Or alive? If dead, where was she buried, and would she be found? And if alive, where was she? Did she remember? Was she living another life and didn’t realize who she was? And what about the older half brother, Owen, Margaret’s only son. He’d been the prime suspect in his sisters’ disappearance. What had happened to him? Was he around? Did he know that Holly’s and Poppy’s bodies had been discovered? What, if any, connection did the Duval family have with the Beaumonts?
Dozens of questions swirling through her brain, she accessed the newspaper’s archives remotely and pulled up story after story about the Duval sisters and started making a list of people to interview. At the top of the list was Owen Duval. She didn’t know much about him, only that he’d been adopted by Harvey Duval soon after Harvey married Margaret. So where was Owen’s biological father? She made a note to track him down.
She spent over an hour searching through the files she could access, as well as online yearbooks, cross-checking the pictures and names with a list of the acquaintances she’d found in old newspaper articles. There were several names of classmates that rang distant bells with her. When she’d looked up those names in old yearbooks, she vaguely remembered some of the kids, all of whom would be in their midthirties now. She noted a few of the names and was about to call Millie when Mikado placed his nose on her leg and whined.
“That’s right. I promised,” she said, and reluctantly climbed down the stairs to the kitchen and opened the slider. The dog shot outside. He sniffed around the backyard, chased a ball she threw with her good hand, then flopped on the flagstones in a patch of sunlight to sun himself. “Feel good?” she asked, scratching his scruffy head behind his ears, though she was thinking of the case and how she would unravel the mystery. She’d need the help of the police department but didn’t dare talk to Reed. Not yet. She knew other people at the department but figured she was persona non grata with the PD. At least for now.
She left the dog snoozing in the warm sunlight and returned to the third floor again.
She dialed Millie’s cell number and put her phone on speaker while her fingers flew over the keyboard. Yeah, her left hand twinged, hurting as she typed, but at least it still worked.
Millie clicked on before the phone rang twice, but Nikki didn’t wait for her to answer. “I see the bodies have been ID’d.”
“Yeah, next of kin—the mother—was just notified a couple of hours ago.”
“Metzger called trying to get info from me.”
“Yeah.” A pause. “He’s here at the office, doing some research. Or whatever. Maybe playing games on his computer. Or placing a bet or two. He’s big on the online gambling.”
“What about the third sister? The little one?”
“No sign of her or her remains,” Millie said, then, “unless you know more than I do.”
Nikki got the implication. “From Reed? Are you kidding? His lips are sealed. Like permanently.” And it was frustrating as hell.
There was a brief pause, then Millie asked, “So, Nikki, how’re you doing?”
The question was inevitable. “I’m okay.” That was a bit of a lie, but she went with it.
“How’s your shoulder?”
“It’ll be fine.”
“And—?”
Nikki let out a sigh. Millie wanted to know about the baby. Okay. That was fair. They were friends. “I’m . . . it’s . . . it’s okay,” she hedged, spying the cat stroll into the loft and hop onto her desk. “It, um, it might take a little while to get over, but I’ve been through it before. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.” Another lie, this one a little larger because right now she and Reed were not okay. Not okay at all.
“It’s rough.”
A lump formed in Nikki’s throat. She could handle a lot, but when someone was kind to her . . . “Yeah, it is. But . . .” She blinked. Stupid tears. “But there it is. So, I’ve decided to concentrate on work. For now.”
“Good idea.”
“So, to that end, I can access a lot of the newspaper’s files remotely, here, but that might not be enough. I might need your help.”
“You got it. What do you want?”
She watched as Jennings gathered himself, then leaped to the window ledge to stare out at the upper limb of a magnolia tree, where a magpie was perched, screeching and flapping its wings. “I’m hoping you can run down some contact info for me,” Nikki said. “Lots of people were quoted in the original reports, like friends of the victims, neighbors of the family, people who were at the movie theater on the day the girls disappeared, so I’d like to talk to some of them. You know, like the ticket taker or the person who worked the refreshment counter, that kind of thing, anyone who can remember them that day. Do you think you can find them? Especially any that are still local, that haven’t moved away?”
“Mmm, yeah. I’ll see what I can do. You got a list?”
“I’ll e-mail it to you.”
“Good.”
“Also,” Nikki said, flipping through her notes, “if there’s any info on Owen Duval, the brother, let me know because the police had zeroed in on him and if you can locate Owen’s alibi, her name was Ashley McDonnell.”
“McDonnell, got it. Is that all?” Millie asked sarcastically.
“Actually, no.” Nikki was thinking fast now. “I think I might have known some of the people close to the Duvals, so if you can find a list of people the police interviewed, the girls’ friends and relatives, that would help. If there’s any way to get a peek at their statements, I’d love it.”
“If it’s not public, you’ve got a better lead on that.”
“Through Reed,” she said, flopping back on the daybed.
“Yeah.”
That would never work, but she had to move on, couldn’t be waylaid. “So, if you could just, you know, keep an eye on the story, whatever comes in to the paper, over the wires or tips or whatever, and give me a heads-up and send me links, that kind of thing, so I can be on top of it until I can come back into the office myself, that would be great.”
“Okay. I think I can do it. No problem.”
“Oh, and let me know what Metzger’s got going on this.”
“Sure,” Millie said, and Nikki could hear the smile in the other woman’s voice. “You got it.”
CHAPTER 11
Reed cut the engine.
He’d parked his Jeep in the shade of one of the large live oaks that separated the church lot from the parsonage, a white brick bungalow, and now was walking along a stone path leading to the porch.
The door opened before he could press the doorbell and a small, bird-like woman peered at him through the screen. Her eyes, behind rimless glasses, were red from crying, her skin blotchy. Blond hair shot with silver was cut short and swept away from her face.
“Mrs. Le Roy? Margaret Le Roy?” he said, showing his ID, then introducing himself.
“We’ve been expecting you,” she said, her voice husky. “The first officer who was here . . . The deputy who told us about”—she cleared her throat and forced herself to continue—“who explained that . . . that the girls had been found said . . . said that someone would be coming.” She opened the screen door. “Come in, please.” In jeans, a light T-shirt and pink cardigan despite the heat, she led him to a living room just off the entry. Waving him into one of the floral wingback c
hairs positioned in front of the picture window, she dropped onto a faded couch pushed against the opposite wall where a large print of The Last Supper was mounted.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, and she closed her eyes, nodding.
“Thank you. Yes . . . it’s . . . it’s hard.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine.”
“You wouldn’t want to.”
“No.” He faced her across the coffee table, where a large Bible lay open. A canary twittered from a cage on the side table. Upon the mantel of the fireplace were several family photos; a group shot of three blond girls, arms linked as they squinted into the sun, was front and center. Reed’s heart twisted as he recognized Holly, Poppy and Rosie Duval. The two older girls were nearly twins, they looked so much alike, the main difference being one was taller, but only by a couple of inches. Both dark blond, both with short, little, freckled noses. The littlest was too young to have had such a clear resemblance.
“My husband will be joining us. He’s on the phone, I think.” Margaret glanced to the empty hallway, then back at Reed. “Are you certain?” she asked, a hushed, desperate note in her voice. As if she were afraid to say the words. “I mean, are you sure the girls are really Holly and Poppy?”
“Yes, the dental records were a match.” No reason to sugarcoat the truth. “We’re waiting for DNA, but there’s really no doubt. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I want to see them.”
He’d been expecting that. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“They’re my daughters!”
“And . . . unrecognizable.”
“But—”
“Mrs. Le Roy, I would strongly advise against viewing the remains.”
“I am a nurse. Retired now, but still,” she said. “And I’ve seen bodies before. Many bodies.”
“Again, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
She shook her head, wiped the edge of her eyes with a handkerchief. “But my daughters—”
“I know.”
“And . . . and by the way, there are three of them. You say you found Holly and Poppy, but what about little Rosie . . .” Her voice trailed off before she spoke quietly. “You haven’t come to tell me you’ve found her, have you?” Behind her glasses, her eyes focused hard, drilling into him.